Grace Notes
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: Sherlock and John's reunion after Sherlock stops being dead (John's perspective). John is calm. John is too calm.


On discussing Sherlock's return post-Reichenbach, Mark Gatiss comments that "I always found it a little unlikely that Dr Watson's only reaction was to faint."

So whilst we eagerly await season three, this is my take on their reunion. You can read this story from Sherlock's perspective in 'The Deepest Secret'. As always, I would really love to hear your thoughts and insights.

**Grace Notes**

by Mally O'Jack

_"Please God, let me live." _

He said that, once. A long time ago now. In another life. It was the first and only time he had ever sincerely prayed.

He finds it strange.

Because now he doesn't much care for this living lark.

* * *

There is an incessant knocking at the front door of 221b Baker Street.

"All right!" John Watson shouts, hurrying down the dark stairway. "Bloody salesmen," he adds under his breath.

He fumbles with the door key. "No cold callers. Can't you read the sign?" He opens the door.

Sherlock Holmes is standing outside. He is holding a scarf to a wound on the right side of his head.

John simply stares at him for a second. Then he slams the door shut. He stands there, holding the door handle. He forgets to breathe, until his lungs remind him of their need for oxygen, and then he gasps.

_Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell -_

He used to hallucinate, when he came back from Afghanistan. In those moments between sleep and waking, he saw dead men at the foot of his bed. Evidently now he is faced with a hallucination of the corpse of his best friend, who for some reason after three years has seen fit to crawl up off the pavement outside Barts with half his head bashed in, and has now pitched up at Baker Street.

John takes a deep breath. Steels himself. Opens the door again.

Sherlock is still standing there. Except, he has taken the scarf from his head, and John sees that the blood is coming from a jagged laceration above his right eyebrow. Not the same as before then.

_It's you, _he wants to say.

(Yes)

_You're not dead._

(No)

_You're alive. _

(Obviously)

Every response seems inadequate. And so he settles for, "Come in."

Sherlock nods briefly, and moves past him up the stairs. John locks the door, and follows him up. He is very calm.

Sherlock hesitates in the lounge. "John -"

"Lie down," John says, moving past him. "Put your head here." He indicates the arm of the sofa. "I'll get a suture pack."

Sherlock is still standing there, in the same place, when John comes back with the pack and a towel.

"Lie down here," John says again. His voice is monotone, even. He thinks he is handling this very well. He spreads the towel over the arm of the sofa. After a pause, Sherlock lies down. John kneels over him, his kit on the table next to him. There is a faint smell of smoke.

"What were you hit with?"

"A fist. He wore a ring. Some kind of precious stone set in it."

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"No."

He puts on the surgical gloves.

"John," Sherlock says again -

"Don't."

He opens up the pack, positions the anglepoise lamp so that it illuminates Sherlock's brow.

"I need to clean it first. I don't have any anaesthetic so it might sting."

He cleans out the wound with iodine. Sherlock winces slightly and squeezes his eyes shut.

Then John takes out the suture needle. He finds that his hands are shaking, and so he has to rest them on Sherlock's forehead whilst he sutures. Muscle layers first, then skin. It must be hurting him; John notes with clinical detachment the clenched fists, the white knuckles.

He finishes the suturing, clears the pack away.

"You'll need the top stitches out in five days," he says. "Don't put anything over it." He gets up, and his knees click. He is suddenly very tired. "I'm going to bed."

He turns his back on Sherlock without looking at him, and makes his way up the stairs like an old man. He goes up to bed fully clothed and lies there, listening to the clock tick, and tick, and sleep does not come for him. Eventually he gets up again with the intention of putting the kettle on.

Sherlock is still lying there on the sofa, in the same position that John left him. He is sleeping.

Instead of carrying on into the kitchen, John sinks into the armchair opposite him, and watches him in the moonlight. He is drinking him in. And suddenly John is asleep.

* * *

In the morning, John reaches consciousness in stages. He is aware of a superficial distress, and underneath that, a deep joy, rushing like a current, welling up. At first he cannot account for it. Then he remembers, and his eyes snap open.

He finds that the sofa is empty.

Disappointment, almost unbearable. Hot tears prick at his eyes. Then he is aware of the shower running, and he leaps up, despite himself.

They meet in the hall way. They look at each other. Sherlock is clad in a towel.

"There is blood on my shirt," Sherlock says. "May I borrow one of yours?" He is tentative, as if he is unsure of this John. John does not blame him. He is also unsure of himself.

He rummages in his wardrobe, fetches out his largest shirt.

"Come and have breakfast when you're ready," John says.

* * *

John is in the kitchen chopping mushrooms when Sherlock enters.

"John - "

"Not yet."

Sherlock sits at the kitchen table, and John serves up the fry-up for both of them. Sherlock eats voraciously, but John can only take small bites of his. Sherlock finishes his plate in rapid speed, and John pushes his plate towards him. "Here."

"Do you not want it?"

"I'm not hungry."

Sherlock wolfs it down. John settles for making a pot of coffee. Tea for Sherlock. It is instinctive.

"So," John says, sitting at the table opposite Sherlock. He is very calm still. "You're back then?

"Yes."

"For good?"

"Yes."

It is like a confrontation. Sherlock is showing no emotion, and for once, John isn't either.

He gestures - "What happened to your head?"

"The last of Moriarty's henchmen. He fought, but I managed to dispatch him. Then I came here."

"For me to patch you up." It is a statement.

"No. I was always going to return to Baker Street after I had finished." Sherlock smiles then. It is an odd smile that does not reach his eyes. "It was my reward."

"Your reward," John echoes incredulously. He suddenly feels anger, white-hot, flare up within him. "It's - not - a bloody game - "

His mobile rings. John ignores it, and continues to stare at Sherlock, his nostrils flaring.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Sherlock says eventually.

John picks up the phone. His tone is clipped. "Yes?".

It is the clinic.

"Yeah, sorry," he says. "Can't come in. I'm ill. Yeah, there's a lot of it going around. Right. Cheers."

He hangs up. He hasn't been late for work once in the past three years. And now Sherlock Holmes is back for less than a day, and already his life is being disrupted.

He puts the phone down carefully on the counter and walks into the lounge, taking deep breaths. Sherlock sits at the counter, observing him.

When John has calmed himself, he comes and sits back at the table. Clasps his hands in front of him. He is in control again.

"So what happened, up there, on the roof. It was you who jumped, I take it?"

"Yes."

He sits back, folds his arms. "Well?"

But he only half-listens as Sherlock spins a tale about Moriarty and snipers and decoy bodies and a web of intrigue that he has spent these past three years tearing down.

Sherlock finishes his story, and is eyeing him somewhat warily.

"What are your thoughts on the matter?" Sherlock asks. So innocuous. As if he is inquiring about the latest rise in petrol.

He is calm. He is very calm. His breathing is steady. But then he blurts out, "How could you do that to me?"

Sherlock reacts as if he has been hit.

"How could you let me go on like that? Thinking you were dead?"

Sherlock literally moves back as if blasted by the heat of his words

John cannot sit still. He pushes away from the table, goes to stand in the centre of the lounge again.

"I didn't have a choice," Sherlock says, following him this time - "even yesterday, they would have killed you."

He is so _angry_. It is like someone has flicked a switch, and this _fury_ is coursing through his veins.

"What makes you think I even want you back?" John says. He laughs somewhat hysterically. "That chapter in my life is closed now. I've accepted it. I've moved on. So why don't you do us all a favour, and stay dead?" He does not know why he is saying these things.

"You're lying," Sherlock says then.

"Nope," John shoots back at him.

"You haven't moved on."

"I have."

"No, John." There is something in Sherlock's expression that makes John swallow any more retorts, that urges him to be still.

"I think - " and here, Sherlock is curiously hesitant again. "I think that you are unfinished. Like a violin sonata that has been muted." Sherlock takes a step towards him, and John backs away. "You feel dislocated." John is shaking his head, but Sherlock keeps going. "It is as if all the lights in the world have gone out, and you alone are standing in the darkness."

"How could you know that?" he says, barely above a whisper.

"It is what my life is like," Sherlock says simply. "Without you."

Something in him breaks then. With a cry, he seizes Sherlock's arms and starts head-butting him in the chest, hard enough to hurt. He hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, but he cannot stop. There is a guttural noise coming from his throat.

Eventually he rests his head on Sherlock's chest, releases his iron grip on Sherlock's arms slightly. He hears Sherlock's heart beating loud and strong under the shirt, can feel its pounding.

_Sherlock, Sherlock, _he is saying under his breath.

And for the second time in his life, he is praying.

_Thank you God. Thank you God. Thank you._

* * *

_Finis_


End file.
